


Shibari

by StarkRogers



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Play, Blindfolds, Bondage, Fingerfucking, Gags, Ice Play, M/M, Rope Bondage, Sensation Play, Sensory Deprivation, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkRogers/pseuds/StarkRogers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Copyright: This is an original work of fiction. Sherlock Holmes is public domain, making this piece of work legally mine. You may not reproduce or publish this work on any site or in any journal or any other form of media without my permission. </p><p> </p><p>Older work.</p><p>Based on this kinkmeme prompt: http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9194.html?thread=19474410#t19474410</p><p>"I would like Holmes bound (shibari style bondage would work the best), gagged, blindfolded, ears plugged, and then injected with some drug that makes him super sensitive to touch. The person who does this to him could either leave him like that and watch him squirm helplessly as every rope and knot digs into his skin, or they could proceed to tease and fondle him until he orgasms."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shibari

Holmes shudders unexpectedly as the first brush of rough hemp rope scrapes against his bare flesh, and goose pimples rise along his arms. Watson breathes against his neck softly and Holmes exhales with him, his sinewy arms flexing expectantly. Watson’s warm hands guide his wrists up to the middle of his back and hold them there, crossed slightly. He can already sense how uncomfortable the position will be to hold and it sends a jolt of silvery heat to his stomach.

Holmes sits, blindfolded with a silk scarf in the middle of the sitting room. They have pushed the furniture out of the way, giving them a large space to engage in the current activity. Holmes had been intrigued when Watson had first mentioned in an offhand way the Japanese art of rope binding, shibari. After Holmes expressed his interest they had quickly progressed to the current situation, with Holmes kneeling in the middle of their sitting room, shivering with anticipation.

He forces himself to stay still as the rope begins twisting around his wrists. His fingers flex gently, but his heart pounds in his chest. He lifts his chin as Watson slips the rope around his shoulder and across his pectorals. The rope crisscrosses over his torso, pulling his wrists just a few inches higher, only stopping when he winces slightly.

Once the rope is tucked tightly against his back – no knots, just twists replying on the friction of the hemp – he tests the bonds, hearing them creak and feeling their slight give. He hadn’t expected every motion to send tension into each carefully placed length of rope, and he’s not sure of it’s a hum of appreciation or a moan that escapes his lips.

Watson slips around to his front and lifts one of Holmes’ knees slightly, sliding a rope down to his ankle, slowly binding his thigh to his calf, immobilizing him in the kneeling position. Watson leaves his other leg free, and Holmes can’t help but compare the sensations of his bound leg to his free one and marvel at how it makes the press of the ropes against his skin even more potent. He feels as Watson reaches up to his face and presses his fingers against Holmes’ mouth, coaxing his lips to open before passing two lengths of rope between his teeth, gagging him.

They had discussed which bindings would be used beforehand, and so Holmes knows Watson is now finished and standing there, admiring his handiwork. Holmes can only imagine how he looks, and his body flushes. Watson’s sudden lips against his cheek are all he needs to know he must look terribly wanton. He turns towards the doctor’s mouth, ignoring the slowly building heat in his shoulders and the ache in his thighs just beginning to glow. Watson breaks the kiss to slip behind and kneel, his hips wrapping around Holmes’ own, pressing their bodies almost together until there is just heat between their skin. There is an achingly long pause and then Holmes cries out, Watson’s hot mouth gently caressing his ear.

He strains against the ropes as Watson sucks hungrily on his ear, and as each length shifts and tightens around his chest and thigh the cascading sensations drag another unwilling groan from his throat. Just as he begins to regain some sense of self-control, the heat and mouth is gone, leaving him gasping for breath through the ropes gagging his mouth, his eyes dashing back and forth beneath the blindfold. Watson’s presence returns, and ever so gently he presses soft wax against Holmes’ ears, sealing them shut. Holmes trembles as Watson leaves once more and doesn’t return, although he knows the doctor is still in the room; he can feel him walking across the floor. He spends a moment to marvel at how useful the sense touch is until Watson returns. There is a cold prick against his elbow and he hisses, the sound new and interesting through his muffled ears. 

The concoction feels like ice running through his veins, and he’s sufficiently distracted by this new sensation in conjunction with the burning of his shoulders and thighs, and the roughness of the rope, that he doesn’t notice Watson has left until he is suddenly aware of the doctor’s absence. Most disturbingly, he can’t remember if he felt the door closing. He doesn’t know where Watson is… and that in itself is a thrill. Logically he knows the doctor is still in the room, he must be. Watson would never violate such a safety precaution and leave Holmes bound alone, but Holmes isn’t functioning on a logical level at the moment. Fear and excitement pool in his stomach as he waits for the drug to take effect.

At first there is nothing different; the icy feeling fades and he is momentarily disappointed that it isn’t as potent as promised. The sensation of the bindings fades the way all sensations fade as the body adjusts. But as the minutes tick by, the bindings begin to itch and then scratch. It starts in his chest, where he can’t stop the rise and fall of his torso with each breath. He shifts uncomfortably but it only sets his entire body alight with tingling sensations. It is as if he can feel every fiber of every single rope digging into his skin and it lies somewhere between painful and erotic. He moans, trying to hold still, but every movement sends a cascade of sensations rolling through his body, with all of them seeming to pool in his groin, flushing it with heat. Soon he finds himself twisting just to keep the sensations rolling, the feel of the rope against his skin an incredible aphrodisiac he can’t get enough of.

The ropes in his mouth are now damp with condensation from his breath and saliva, and he begins to whimper as the overwhelming sensations excite but provide no relief, just wave after wave of excruciatingly crisp tactile feedback that loops endlessly. He is so lost in this world of painfully clear touch that at first he doesn’t notice Watson’s hands against his shoulder and back, not until he is coaxed out of the fetal position he hadn’t realized he’d curled up into. With stuttering movements he is guided to lie back against the floor on his side, his bound leg resting against the wood. His knee brushes against one of the Persian rugs on the floor and that sends another jolt of new tactile information flooding to his brain and wracking his body.

He’s so hard it aches, but that sensation is hardly noticeable compared to the ache of his entire body. Through the haze he feels Watson’s hands on his unbound leg, coaxing it to relax enough that the doctor can drape it over his shoulder and kneel between Holmes’ legs. He should be able to predict what Watson is going to do but his brain is on overload, unable to processes the tactile information he’s receiving, much less capable of making any deduction about what the doctor is going to do next. The doctor’s body under his leg is like an anchor to sanity, and he clings to it as best he can until his world is thrown into pieces again by Watson’s lips against the inside of his thigh. He writhes uncontrollably as the doctor’s lips leave a wet path down his thigh, a strangle cry of frustration muffled by the gag as Watson’s mouth leaves before reaching Holmes’ groin.

Watson brushes his hand over the ropes tying one thigh and it makes his unbound thigh tingle, and he rolls his head to the side, trying to articulate his pleas through the rope gag as the doctor’s fingers play against the ropes, tugging at them, his hands moving over all of Holmes’ skin. Holmes feels like he’s on fire, and it has become all nearly unbearable. He can feel every strand of his own hair plastered to his face with sweat, feel every drop of sweat trickling down his back, arms and legs, and his mind races, trying to keep up and catalogue each sensation. He has just managed to gain control once more when there is a sudden shock of cold against his left nipple, forcing his back to arch off the floor and his body to buck. 

It takes him far too many seconds to realize the slippery cold against his chest is an ice cube, and by then it’s trailing over rope and headed down his bare stomach. It curls around beneath the base of his swollen member and stars explode behind the blindfold, his body stiff and trembling at the brief promise of friction. Instead Watson slides the nearly melted cube down between Holmes’ legs, and as it melts away a cold thin stream drips over his perineum and over his entrance, the lightest touch of the water making it clench.

Something warmer and wet joins the drop of water there, and his body welcomes Watson’s finger inside. He’s suddenly frightened at the prospect of how powerful a brush against his prostate will feel, and he almost clenches to prevent Watson’s finger from going any deeper. The doctor’s fingers are insistent, sliding deeper, and Holmes bucks his hips, pushing with his free leg, trying to move away as Watson’s fingers probe even further.

He screams as expert fingertips finally find and caress his prostate, wailing until there is no breath left in his chest and his hips thrust against the doctor’s fingers, impaling him and driving down in a too-fast rhythm. Watson slips his fingers back out and Holmes still bucks into the air, the memory of the sensation carrying him oh-so-close to the edge, but fading just before he reaches it.

He finally breaks then, shaking and whimpering helplessly in Watson’s arms. He sags weakly against the floor, still shuddering but unable to even press into Watson’s hands as the doctor finally takes his engorged member in hand, stroking him just a few times before he comes, the relief almost more of a release than the orgasm itself.

Holmes pants weakly, unable to move as Watson’s hands gently soothe him, the effect of the drug fading, but still setting his nerves on fire. Watson begins to untie Holmes, starting with his thigh, controlling carefully how fast Holmes straightens the aching muscles out. Then the doctor gently rolls Holmes onto his side and helps him sit up, undoing the chest bonds with the same care, massaging his arms and hands, helping circulation return to the shaking limbs. Watson removes the wax and the blindfold, setting them to the side. Finally he pulls Holmes against his chest and holds him in one arm while stroking himself, relieving himself with Holmes in his arms, his own emission joining the detective’s on his stomach. They fall asleep on the floor; mindless of the mess they’ll have to clean up later.


End file.
